


From the Waters in Which We Spring

by salishseaselkie



Series: Thistle Thine, Rose Mine [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, NSFW, Pregnancy, Pregnancy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:03:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5272418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salishseaselkie/pseuds/salishseaselkie





	From the Waters in Which We Spring

Her stomach is round and swollen, a sight Alistair thought he’d never get to see. It bulges under the covers as they sleep, swells under the soft velvets and chiffons she’s taken to wearing, and peeks out from the water when she bathes like a bare island. No matter where she is or what she is doing, Alistair cannot fathom that the child in Rhona’s womb is his.

He does everything he can to come to terms with it. He stops her in the hallway to kiss her when they pass, headed for opposite ends of the palace – him to his study, her to the kitchen to raid the larder again, because even as a Warden, he’s never seen her appetite so big – stops her to kiss her pert mouth and span his hands over her abdomen to welcome such a beautiful sight. He murmurs to her navel as she reads in bed, hoping the baby hears him whispering stories and songs to it, hoping the baby will like the sound of his voice. He is gentle when he makes love to her, dropping kisses beneath her swollen breasts to apologize to his child for disturbing its rest, but Mummy is so beautiful and needs proper devotion.

She, of course, is well aware of what is happening inside her, and complains of it every day: her feet hurt, her back aches, the kitchen is “positively odorous”, she’s feeling nauseous, and always, always, this ravenous craving for venison and gooseberry stew. Alistair brings her the foods she craves eagerly, even in the dead of night when the baby is awake and kicking at her ribs. He holds her hair away from her face after she sprints for the chamber pot in the morning, and tells her jokes as he waits for her to empty her stomach. He sits behind her in the wash basin and massages the ache from her spine, ignoring the insatiable desire her pleasured moans wring from his body unless she initiates. He brings in the finest Nevarran incense to mask the odors of the palace, and though it makes him sneeze, she thinks it is divine, so he suffers through. He sits in bed with her, rubbing what she now refers to as her “fat feet”, and listens to her talk about what she wants to do when the baby comes – which is, by far, his favorite thing to do.

He hopes for a daughter, one like her with fierce green eyes and fiercer determination, but he knows when she speaks of it that she wants a little boy like her nephew, whose little broken body rests in the earth at Highever. She wants a boy with his kind eyes and awkward charm, with her father’s resolve, with her appetite for adventure. The baby is due in the spring, so they decide the baby’s room should be pale green with yellow trim, and it will invariably be the room adjoined to theirs that had been meant for Rhona – for everyone had expected the royal couple to follow Cailan and Anora’s example and sleep separately, a tradition they had been more than happy to flout. They want their little blessing as close as possible.

They agree the baby should be born in Highever, away from the throng of well-wishers and solicitors who will flock to them and drive Alistair crazy as he tries to bond with his newborn. Rhona notes very early on that “you are going to be obnoxiously overprotective, aren’t you?” Alistair merely snorts.

He sticks his nose in the air and proudly proclaims, “And there’s nothing you can do about it.” She laughs, knowing it is true.

When winter melts away, Alistair no longer needs to come to terms with the impending birth – no, in fact, he is so ready that every movement Rhona makes, whether a wince from the baby stretching again or a slow rub over her stomach, he pauses and waits for her next move. They are in Highever now, and Fergus is also antsy – double the bewildered gazes, making Rhona irritable. She gets so irascible with Alistair for staring that she sends him out to play with his mabari, telling him that “You can stop gawking at me like I’m about to burst into flame or you can go home while I have the baby here.” Of course, he sulks for it, but returns cheery and energized, and he remembers not to stare.

One night, Alistair returns from a meeting with Arl Eamon, who is overseeing Denerim until their return, to find their room littered in candles and their bed covered in rose petals, and Rhona is sitting in the wash basin, crooking her finger with a lustful eye, beckoning him to join her. He smells jasmine oil in the air: she has not held back on her mission to seduce him. They have not made love like this in some time, taking time to truly enjoy each other, but the way she looks at him, her sparkling green eyes dark with longing and the golden candlelight shimmering on her skin, Alistair cannot refuse.

He shucks his clothes, almost trips over his smalls as they come down around his ankles, and he rejoices at the sound of her laugh, a sound which has been all too readily replaced with her groaning and crying and cursing as she suffers through childbearing. He had worries about doing this sort of thing, but the healers had all assured him that all he would do to the babe was get it a little excited with the mother’s racing heartbeat. Still, he doesn’t really enjoy thinking about it.

She rises from the steaming water to meet him, kissing his mouth firmly, hotly, and he already feels his body responding to her. Not breaking the contact, he sits in the basin and lets her straddle him, rubbing her back and her belly, stroking the backs of her thighs and the curve of her buttocks, which are both still strong and sinewed from years of training and fighting. She slips her tongue in his mouth and moans, aggressive and wanting. He digs his fingers into her skin, telling her without words what she is doing to him as he returns the favor in kind.

She slides her sex over his hard erection, and she is wet and wanting. He can feel it even through the scented water; she is so ready for him. He rolls his head back against the lip of the basin and she sucks his pulse point, skimming her teeth over his skin. Her nails scrape over his chest, and one hits his nipple, shocking him, shooting lightning bolts behind his eyes. She bites down gently on his earlobe - it is all he can do to keep from ravishing her. His hands curve down her bottom and between her legs to touch her entrance. One comes around her hip, and he slides two fingers into her as his thumb rests on her clitoris. She coils at the feel of it, pushing herself up, her hands splayed over his chest as he strokes her diligently. Her eyes, dilated and hooded, gaze down at him, begging him to take her. He pulls her down and kisses her sensitive breasts while she bucks in his hand, whining his name in strangled gasps. His erection twitches. Andraste, he wants her, more than ever, but he wants her to come for him, wants her to scream his name before he meets her at the finish line.

Her hands fly up and grasp his hair, tugging his head back to kiss him, and she hiccups her climax into his mouth and wraps her arms around his neck. He lifts her hips, minding her belly, and brings her down onto him, shuddering at the tight feel of her. She is strong and sets a voracious rhythm. Water splashes around them as he presses his forehead into her collarbone to thrust up and meet her.

She comes undone again, and when he does, his arms tighten around her and his voice cries out in a snarl. They stay like that, her arms around his neck, his around her waist, both exhaling heavily as they catch their breaths. She turns around and lays down in his arms, stretching her long legs out, pulling her hair over her shoulder, letting the coils of her orgasm unfurl and unwind her. He hasn’t seen her this relaxed in a long time – the magic of the Coastlands, she has said, but he knows she’s happy to be away from Denerim for a spell.

He asks, “What was that for?” and she raises a hand to cup his stubbled cheek, looking over her shoulder at him with adoring eyes.

She admits softly, “I am just so proud of you, Alistair. I am so lucky to have you – I just wanted to let you know, I suppose, in my own way.” She leans her forehead against his jaw, and he kisses her there, stroking his hand through her wet, dark curls that cover her breast. Eleven years is a long time to love someone, but she makes it so easy, despite her moods and her foul temper. Eleven years is long enough to get bored of someone, but he is never bored, never tired of how she looks at him like he’s the only man in the world worth having or the hi-jinks she gets him in when she’s had enough of the stuffy nobles who demand all their attentions. Eleven years is long enough to grow resentments, and he’s never going to forget some of the more painful things he’s done for them: a sex ritual with a shady hedge-witch and bearing the two years he’s had to do without her being the foremost, but he is reaping the benefits of those trials. They are both alive and in love and with a child on the way, and that is all that he can care about as they soak away their anxieties, hands folded over their future.

One week later, he hears a thud from the study and runs for it. He comes to a halt at the door and sees a large tome on the floor, with Rhona bent over, her hand on her stomach. She doesn’t see him through the veil of her hair, so he calls to her. “Rho? Love, what is it?”

She is silent for a moment, but when he takes a step forward, she looks at him, eyes wide, and says flatly, “The baby’s coming.”

Hours later, Alistair fights the midwife to let him in as his wife cries out in their room, her contractions coming faster and closer together. He finally puts his foot down and announces that he is the King of Ferelden, and if she doesn’t move out of the way, he’ll have her shipped off to Kirkwall to work for Viscount Bran instead. She finally budges and Alistair slips past to place two hands on Rhona’s jaw to kiss her sweaty forehead.

“Dearest,” he murmurs, “I’m here.”

She scowls at him and hisses, “I’m not blind, Alistair; I’m having a baby!” Another contraction hits, and she doubles over, teeth clenched and eyes squeezed tight. She roughly grabs his hand to squeeze, and she nearly cuts off his circulation, but instead of complaining, he cups her hand in his free one and kisses her temple, crooning encouragements in her ear. When it is through, she leans her head against his shoulder and whimpers, “Why won’t it come out?” The midwife peeks beneath the blankets keeping her modest, and she grins when she looks up.

She explains quite happily, “Your babe is almost here, Your Highness; not too much longer now. You shall have your heir in a matter of minutes, if I am to have any guess.” A contraction takes her again, and Alistair watches as the veins in her neck pop out and she strains for control over the pain, and when the midwife urges her to push moments after, Alistair’s only thought is to be with her. He cups her cheek with his free hand and presses his forehead to hers. His touch grounds her, and her tired eyes lock with his, silently begging for an end to it.

He murmurs, “Almost there, my love; you are almost there…” She pushes, jerking away to lean forward and take control with a roar. Her body then suddenly slackens and Alistair hears a wail as the midwife reaches between his wife’s legs. A pair of scissors are taken from the tray next to her, then cloth and she lifts up a small, pink, wrinkly bundle, and she looks to them.

She stands and offers the bundle to Alistair. “Your son, Majesty,” and bows to take her leave. Alistair stares, unbelieving. It is unfathomable. It is a boy, with a patch of dark hair on his head and small, squinting eyes, his mouth in a tiny pout, and his little hands grasping out at him. Alistair offers his pinky, and as the babe takes it, tears involuntarily stream from his eyes.

Rhona, tired and precious beyond measure, reaches out and wipes a tear from his cheek. “Oh my love…” Alistair laughs.

He manages to choke out, “He’s…he’s beautiful, Rho. He’s…he’s so beautiful.” Rhona stretches out her arms, beckoning for the babe, and he relinquishes without hesitation. She takes him and cradles him in her arms as if it is as natural as breathing.

She strokes his plump cheek with the back of her finger and croons, “Hello, my little love. Aren’t you a sweet thing…” She tugs down the loose collar of her nightgown and offers him a breast to suckle. The baby takes it eagerly and sucks hard, hungrily. Alistair is in awe, but Rhona distracts him when she looks up to address him.

She wearily states, “We need to name him, love. What should we call him?” Alistair is at a loss. He’d considered Duncan for a time, but as he looks at his son, he doesn’t like the feel of it.

He takes Rhona’s free hand, twining his fingers with hers in her lap, and asks, “What about Bryce? We could name him for your father.” But Rhona looks at the wee thing and shakes her head.

“Maric? Like yours?” Alistair hates that even more. The one time he’s ever seen his father…that was nothing to be proud of. He thinks and thinks of something fitting.

An Alamarri name, meaning young warrior, demands his attention, and he asks her, “What about…Evan?” She furrows her brow pensively, then looks at their son to admire him and weigh the name on her tongue.

“Evan…what of it, my darling? Would that suit you?” The baby’s eyes flutter shut as her mother’s milk fills his belly, and he reaches up to her collarbone with drowsy fingers. She smiles warmly, a certain wisdom dulling the fire of her eyes, and it is a mother’s smile if ever Alistair has seen. They have their answer. “Prince Evan Theirin…I think it will do.” She squeezes Alistair’s hand, and he lifts it to kiss her fingers.

He praises her, knowing it is not enough to convey the feeling in his heart. “Well done, my love.” And though he still can hardly believe it isn’t all a dream, Alistair is content as he sits with them, and his only thought to anything is to his family.


End file.
